Running to the Caicos

We spent a couple nights in Clarence Town, not counting the night we arrived.  One was spent anchored out in the harbor.  It proved to be a rough anchorage and an exceedingly long, wet dinghy ride to shore.  We moved into the protection of the marina for the second night while we waited for the latest cold front to pass over.  We had to pay for a slip, but it was worth it.

 

(A long, wet dinghy ride from shore)

Our first day there, the crew made the trek by dinghy into the docks and spent the day exploring town on foot.  I opted to remain aboard and passed the intervening hours until their  return in glorious silence and solitude, reading, napping, eating.  It was the first true private time of more than a few minutes I'd had since leaving Fort Lauderdale. I took full advantage.

 

The crew returned just before sunset.  They'd met a local chef who gave them some chili peppers and specific instructions on how to cook the Mahi Mahi fillets still residing in our refrigerator.

 

(Nate, Becca, and Mark race to interrupt my alone time)

It was my night to cook dinner.  The instructions were repeated to the best of everyone's memory with much repetition and contradiction.  Brown rice cooked in chicken stock.  Green beans with carmelized onions and green peppers.  The fish, pan seared with olive oil, salt and pepper, lime juice, and minced chili peppers.  

 

I set to work in the tiny galley in the tiny cabin aboard the tiny rocking boat.  Sweat dripped in my eyes as steam fogged the portholes and the temperature inside the cabin quickly climbed with the heating fry pan.  As soon as the  spicy peppers hit the hot fry pan, a cloud of vaporized capsaicin filled the cabin.  Immediately doubled over, coughing, eyes streaming tears, we crawled up and out into the cockpit to clear our lungs and regain our eyesight in the cool evening breeze.  The pain only served to heighten our appetites.

I used every pan and pot we had.  It was Nate's night to do the dishes.  We piled them up in a greasy heap out in the cockpit.  He put it off until the morning.

The next day the wind was howling.  By unanimous decision, we traded our distant anchorage for the convenience of the marina.  We glided Strolla smoothly up to the dock, proud to look like pros in front of the dockmaster, but then spent a full hour adjusting dock line tension and placing chaff gear.  Strolla jerked and bucked at her tethers.  It wasn't much calmer at the marina docks than it had been out at anchor.  The wind continued to increase.  With seven dock lines out and rags and hand towels and pads placed on all the wear points, I finally felt secure that we wouldn't break free in the night.  

Showers, internet, loafing about, an evening in the bar next door getting drunk with the crews of the two twin mega yachts tied up across from us.  We compared weather information, discussed sailing routes.  They informed us repeatedly that the British Virgin Islands are the only place to spend New Year's.  We informed them repeatedly that we averaged five miles per hour, strictly dependent on the weather and only an act of God would see us to the BVIs by New Years.  Pockets empty, we all stumbled back to our boats.

The next morning was relaxed.  We took on water, topped off our fuel, and waited for the winds to weaken.  Early afternoon we cast off and motored out.  The bikini clad crew of the nearest motor yacht waved farewell from their sunbathing beds on the fore deck.  We waved back wistfully.

(running with the wind)

The swells exiting the harbor were steep, the winds still howling.  I wondered if perhaps I'd been a bit impatient on our departure.  Returning to our spot at the dock was briefly considered.  However, as soon as we'd gained enough sea room, we turned off the wind, putting it directly astern and setting the compass for Crooked Island.  The wind seemed to lessen, the boat seemed to stabilize.  In a second it became quite pleasant.  Only careful attention to the size of the waves charging up on our stern and slipping by our beams reminded us of the conditions we were actually out in.  

(flying the scrap of spinnaker that came with the boat)

We ran along under our genoa alone, surfing down the faces of waves at spectacular speeds (for us) up to 10 knots.  I cautioned everyone that conditions had not in fact moderated as much as they appeared.  Sailing along gloriously, rolling gently with each passing wave, I think they found it hard to take my warning seriously.  Basking in the sun, all alone on the great blue sea, we joked and snacked.  I showed everyone how to set the jib boom.  We set up the spinnaker for the first time, or what passes for the spinnaker aboard Strolla.  We were making great time, rested and ready.

(a following sea overtakes us on the starbard rail)

The sun set, the stars came out, the wind never weakened.  We passed the safe anchorages on Crooked Island early in the night, and those in the Plana Cays closer towards dawn.  By morning we could see the shores of Mayaguana.  Still, the wind howled and hurtled us forward.  We turned south and then east again, riding our west wind along the coast of the long, wooded island.

(Nate checking the trawling line)

As we crossed the shallower waters near the coastal reefs, we caught two large Barracuda in close succession.  Becca's cookbook warned about the high risk of food poisoning from eating Barracuda.  We reeled them in and I took it upon myself to unhook each one and throw it back.  A tricky proposition.  I knelt on it's head.  Mark knelt on it's tail.  The fish thrashed.  The tri-pointed hooks of the lure flashed violently in the sun.  Working quickly with gloves and pliers, staying well clear of the inch long teeth, I soon had the great fish free and returned to its home.

(measuring the Barracuda)

As our second night at sea settled in, we had a decision to make.  The entrance onto the Caicos Bank and the anchorage at Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos was strewn with shifting sand bars and shoals.  Infrequently and incompletely mapped, the experts in our cruising guides were agreed: "don't attempt to enter unless you can navigate visually."  The problem was, sailing straight from Mayaguana, we would arrive around 3 a.m.  Even when the sun did rise, it would be directly in our eyes.  With the easterly swell, there was no protected anchorage on Mayaguana.  We sailed on, carried along by the irresistible momentum of the elements.  

 

Five miles from the channel, with Mark and I on watch and Nate and Becca asleep below, we hove to, or at least tried to heave to.  I thought if we could "park" Strolla for a few hours at sea, we could all get some sleep and make our way onto the Caicos Bank when the sun was higher in the sky and the lighting better for spotting obstacles.  I'd never done it before (only read about it) and with time to kill, decided to give it a try.  It didn't work the way it was supposed to.  Apparently, on a sloop like Strolla we would also need to set a sea anchor to fully stop the boat and heave to properly.  Rigging something like that was more time and effort than I was prepared to commit to this little experiment. 

 

Unable to conveniently kill time, our choices were between sailing back and forth along the coast until the lighting was right for a safe entrance through the cut, or just taking our chances in the moonlight.  We decided to take our chances.  The moon was full, its silvery light bright enough to comfortably read a book by.  Going slow, with a double bow watch, we reasoned we would be fine.  

As we entered the narrowest part of the channel, the moonlight suddenly failed.  There were a few small cumulus clouds dotting the night sky.  I assumed one had probably passed over the moon for a second.  The moonlight did not return.  I looked up.  Only the tiniest strip of silvery white still showed.  The rest of the moon was a deep blood red.  We were witnessing a full lunar eclipse.  Impeccable timing.  

 

We arrived at our anchorage safely and without incident, dropped the hook and slipped gratefully to sleep.